


Interlude 3: Running away can be the best option.

by Celticas



Series: Hidden Valkyrie [6]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Avengers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-07-21 05:06:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19996342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celticas/pseuds/Celticas
Summary: The guilt of working for Loki and the loss of Phil sends Clint running. Natasha won't let him run alone.





	1. Chapter 1

For months Natasha had watched as Clint wasted away. In the chaos straight after the invasion, SHIELD had too much to deal with to round them up. As the ‘team’ tripped over each other leaving the Shwarma joint, she grabbed his wrist and pulled him down a dark alley. Ripping trackers from clothing and the subdermal gps they both knew were there, but that SHIELD had never told them about, they left a small pile of electronics behind a dumpster in upper Manhattan and then faded into the shadows.

Clint didn’t know why Natasha was going dark but he trusted her implicitly, the only person he trusted more was Phil. Wait if they were going dark, where was he? Half way down a sidewalk in Harlem he stopped.

“Where is Phil?” He demanded.

The look of devastation was answer enough. It wasn’t often that Natasha allowed her emotions to show, she saw them as a weakness which needed to be controlled and supressed. God, she was actually  _ crying _ and it wasn’t for show, her face was blotchy red and her lips cracked and dry from being bitten. It was the closest to wrecked as he had ever seen her.

“Tasha?” His voice cracked on the single word.

“ Мы должны продолжать двигаться, маленькая птица” She fell back into her mother tongue, tugging on his wrist to get him moving again.

He followed her on auto-pilot. 

He followed her as she darted between the flow of people in the outer boroughs that had only paused to watch the fight before continuing with their lives. 

He followed her into a dark multi-story carpark on the edges of the city. 

He followed her into a dust covered white sedan that looked like a million other family cars that were on the road every day. 

He followed her for days as she steadily drove north.

He couldn’t do anything but follow her.

Taking back roads and backtracking it was a long dark drive through the night before she was driving them into Canada as the sun rose over the border crossing. The long, dark, hours had been silent. Beside her Clint  sat curled in upon himself, catatonic, in the passenger seat.

The better part of the morning had passed before she pulled the car into the driveway of a small white cottage in Margaretville, Nova Scotia. The waterside house looked out over the calm waters of the Bay of Fundy. She got out of the car and waited. The minutes ticked past without Clint showing any sign that he had even realised that they had stopped moving.

Finally, sick of waiting and with the hairs on the back of her neck beginning to tell her she had been in the open for too long, she prised him out of his seat and pushed him up the three stairs to the front door. He stood there, uncaring as she dug the key out a of the small strawberry pot on the left of the door and only moved inside when she pushed.

He stood, silent, in the doorway as she moved gracefully through the dust choked rooms. Windows were thrown open and drop cloths were pulled off furniture. He stood, unseeing, as she changed linens in the bedrooms tucked into the attic space.

He followed as she guided him into the bathroom. Standing passive as she stripped his dirt and blood crusted uniform. She left him standing naked in the small tiled room. She needed to make a run to the shops but didn’t want to leave him alone, not yet.

The rattling of water moving through old pipes was the first sign of life from her best friend, her brother in all but blood. With the feeling that maybe he could be reached, she made a pot of coffee and drank it slowly, watching the water lap at the dark sand and listening to the gurgle of plumbing.

A dark corner of Clint’s mind managed to convince his body that if he didn’t start and get in the shower, Natasha would do it for him and it wouldn’t be a pleasant experience. So, in a fog of nothing, he twisted the water to as hot as it could go and got in. For a long time, he stood under the steaming flow of water. Allowing the water pressure and heat to sluice the sweat, and blood, and dirt of the last week off his body, making no move to reach for the half empty bottle of pink grapefruit body wash in the corner of the shower stall. 

His next movement was spurred by the water running bone chillingly cold, with a flick of his wrist the water stopped, and a blindly fumbling hand found a towel that he wrapped around his waist. Not bothering to dry off, he mechanically left the bathroom and wandered through the first door he came to. Inside he found a light, and airy bedroom painted a clean white. He curled up on one side of the bed in the middle of the room, unconsciously leaving the other side of the bed free for someone who would never again be there to take it.

That was where Natasha found him an hour later, he had air dried while he lay there, the towel draped over his hips preserving what was left of his modesty, not that there was any need between them, and no spark in his eyes. She flicked a soft blanket over him, the nights got cool here and she didn’t think he had the wherewithal to get one for himself. 

“Malenkaya ptitsa, I’m going out for a little. I need to get food.” She said softly.

A distant part of Clint heard and thought they should acknowledge what she had said, the larger part was still gripped by the nothingness that had wrapped itself around him the day before, an impenetrable cloak between his mind, his body, and his emotions.

When no response was forthcoming, she kissed him lightly on the temple and left. The small town she had dropped them in didn’t have a general store, she made the short drive inland to Kinston. A quick run through the shops had her loading bags of the staples and some extras into the back of the car. Clint was the chef of their little family but she and Phil both made do. The thought hit her as she was transferring one of the bags, the shock of remembering to use past tense caused her hand to spasmed sending the bag and its contents to the ground. 

Two jars of pasta sauce smashed on impact, sending red across the pavement and onto the paper. A sob wracked her body. The red on paper, sending her mind reeling back to that moment on the helicarrier when Fury so carelessly threw Phil’s blood-soaked card collection onto the table. A second sob ripped out of her throat. She had been so focused on getting Clint out of New York, she hadn’t really had time to think about why they were running.

Natasha clamped a hand over her mouth, trying to keep the building sobs contained. She collapsed onto the bumper of the car and drew in a shaky breath, and then another. Her iron control coming back into play. Only moments after loosing her grip on herself she was back at it, gathering the dropped bag, she threw away the broken jars and put the rest of the groceries in the trunk. She slammed the car door closed. Climbing into the driver’s seat she fished out a burner phone from the centre consol.

In the almost deserted parking lot of a family grocers in Nova Scotia, Canada she dialled a number from memory. It rang for long moments.

“Yes?” The voice that answered wasn’t the one she was expecting but was still a friendly.

“It’s me.” They knew each other’s voice well enough not to need names.

“Hi. You ok?” She asked.

“I’m ok. I had to get out of New York for a bit. Brought a friend to the lighthouse. I hope that’s ok?” Natasha had no intention of moving even if it wasn’t.

“No, no that’s fine. We aren’t doing so well though. We could use your help.” The other woman said.

“I can’t, birdy need me, its bad.” She used her nickname for Clint. She tapped her fingers against the steering wheel. Why was Skye answering Violet’s phone? And why did she need help? If Clint wasn’t in as bad shape as he was, she wouldn’t hesitate to say yes, but he had always come first for her, they knew that.

“Ok just, if anything changes?” There was the sound of someone else speaking in the background, probably James. “Yes, I’m gonna tell her.” Skye’s voice was slightly muffled as she spoke to the person with her. “Sorry.” She was back on the line. “V got taken.”

Natasha froze, the words repeating in her brain, not making sense.

“What? How? I don’t…” Violet had been part of Natasha’s life for decades. Never had she had to even contemplate putting Clint’s well being against Violet’s. She was meant to be untouchable. How did she choose between her brother and the woman that saved her?

“During the invasion. But Nat its ok. We’ll find her. Look after your people. I’ll let you know when we know something.” Skye’s assurances washed against and over her, making as little impact as an ant makes on a mountain. The words over the phone line faded again. “Come talk to her, she isn’t listening to me.”

A male voice took over. “Nat?” It was James. The other half of the binary system that her first few years away from Russia had orbited around. She had walked in their periphery, never joining them, but always close by. Over the years they had shown her from afar how to function in life, how to be a good person. They had allowed her the freedom to find her own path that had taken her to Clint. Could she turn her back on that now? When they most needed her.

“Ja…James.” Her voice cracked.

“Наташа, у меня это есть. Я найду ее. Позаботьтесь о своей маленькой птичке.” James always allowed his Brooklyn accent to creep into his Russian if he was using it with friends. He always made an extra effort with her to make sure he didn’t sound like a Mosckovite, the voice of the asset rang too loud in her mind, even all these years later, for him not to.

There was something deep within her, the part of her that had secreted away and protected her inner child for all these years, a part that very rarely saw the light of day, that believed him. When he said it would all be ok, she believed it to her core.

“Ok.” She hung up without saying anything else. She knew that if she stayed on the line any longer, she would be half way back to New York before sunset. But Clint was waiting for her, waiting in a house he had never seen nor heard of before. It wasn’t one of Strike Team Delta’s ‘off-book’ safe houses, it wasn’t even one of her safe houses. It was Violet’s.

With the state Clint had been in, she thought he would be hard pressed to even name the country he was in, he wouldn’t survive the week without her. She had two other calls to make but they could wait. 


	2. Chapter 2

The sun was starting its long, slow descent to night as she pulled up at the cottage. The ground floor looked exactly as it had when she left. Upstairs the only change was that Clint had rolled himself into the blanket she had given him before she left. He stared lifeless at a blank wall. 

She let him be. 

Bustling around the ground floor, unloading the shopping and cooking dinner. Making more noise that evening then she had in the last six months, a constant reminder to him that she was there. She made a simple meal of grilled sausages and vegetables, knowing neither of them would be in the mood for anything complicated or heavy. She set two places at the table and waited.

The shadows lengthened.

Giving up on him joining her, she took his plate to him. In the long evening hours, he had not moved. The blanket tucked up under his chin, armour against the world, and staring, sightless, at the same point of creamy paint. She quietly placed the plate on the bedside table, making sure it was in his peripheral vision, and retreated.

Back down stairs she ate her now cold dinner alone at the dining room table, the moon light reflected off the water outside the only illumination. She did the dishes in the dark and settled on the small wooden deck looking over the water with a hot cup of strong black tea. The silence that normally didn’t concern her was stifling. Every intake of breath was hard. She had thought, hoped really, that Clint showering earlier had been some small part of him showing he was still in there. But outside of a mission, Clint never stayed still. He was always fiddling with a zipper, or twirling an arrow between his skilled fingers. 

With cooler night air stealing the warmth from her lungs she returned inside. Navigating the dark house with starlight and memory. She ghosted up the stairs, if he was asleep she didn’t want to wake him. Peeking past the bedroom door she could see his dinner, undisturbed on the bedside table. She took it away again. That first day set the tone for the next six. Clint lay in bed, staring absently at the same white wall. Natasha banged around downstairs, taking food upstairs every few hours and removing the previous plate, 95% of them were untouched. Every second day she levered him out of bed and into the shower where he, yet again, stood uncaring until the water ran cold.

As a sun set a week after the invasion with no sign of improvement from Clint, Natasha decided to change tact. Leaving him to work through it on his own hadn’t helped. At dawn the next morning Natasha barged into the bedroom Clint had hardly left and roughly yanked the blankets of his boxer clad form.

“UP!” She demanded.

He whined and tried to burrow under the pillows, curling into a tighter ball. She liberated the mound of pillows next, dumping them unceremoniously on the floor.

“UP!” She demanded again.

He looked a little pathetic, curled alone in the middle of the large mattress with faded purple, cotton boxers that were beginning to hang of his normally stocky frame. After a week of skipped meals and lack of exercise, and that’s assuming he had been eating while under Loki’s control, his ribs were standing out under his skin.

A banana and a bottle of water bounced on the mattress, “Up! Eat! In ten minutes we are going for a run. If you’re not out the door I’m coming back with a bucket of ice water.” She was seriously considering getting the water from the bay which even in late July was still ice cold, the salt and grit would be an excellent additional motivational factor. Although, James wouldn’t thank her for destroying one of his mattresses. 

Nine minute and thirty seconds later as she finished tying her second shoe, Clint came out the door. Clad in a pair of sweats, a ratty wife beater and the biggest scowl she had ever seen, it was one of the best things she had seen all year.

“This doesn’t mean you win.” He grumbled, it was the first words he had spoken since New York and they could have been a curse on her ancestral line for all she cared what he said, that he was speaking was gift enough. Taking off without her, he headed further into town towards the lighthouse.

It was easy enough for her to catch up and then quickly fell into the rhythm of movement they had been using for a decade or more. 

Natasha knew the second Clint caught sight of the lighthouse that dominated the tiny hamlet. He stopped mid-stride and finally looked at their surrounds. At the water, dark green in the early morning light, lapping at the grey sand. At the handful of cottages and farm houses that made up the ‘town’. At the old lighthouse standing proudly on the point, acting sentinel on it all.

“Where the fuck are we?” He asked, confused. His voice lacking the anger of earlier.

“Margaretsville, Nova Scotia.” She kept moving, forcing him to start running again if he wanted answers.

“Canada? Why?” He fell into step with her.

She took her time thinking about what to tell him, on one hand she had come here because as far as SHIELD knew Natasha had never been in eastern Canada and as far as Natasha knew neither had Clint making it less likely they would be looked for here, on the other hand it was because she associated the house with safety, with James and Violet, and a time in her life that was a close to peaceful as she had ever experienced. But Clint didn’t know about James and Violet, and she didn’t want to explain why they were hiding from SHIELD.

“Why not?” She asked, just to see him grumble about her reticence in giving out information.

He huffed and let the conversation die, if Tasha didn’t want to answer, she wouldn’t. Only a third of the way into their normal distance, he was starting to struggle for breath. The end of the run was completed out of sheer stubbornness. Getting back to their little house, he collapsed on the front step, struggling to pull in enough oxygen. His face bright red from exertion and sweat darkening his shirt, it wasn’t his best look.

“Shower then breakfast.” She said, sidestepping him to get inside.

Heaving himself off the ground he shuffled inside and into a shower. For the first time since arriving he reached for that half-used bottle of pink grapefruit shower gel. Washing himself with the tart smelling soap he wondered whose it was, he had been assuming this was one of Natasha’s safehouses, but she preferred more subtle, floral scents when not on mission. 

Standing in the middle of the bedroom drying himself off the other incongruities that he had noticed but not paid attention to started to stand out. There was a photo of two people on the bedside table, taken at a beach with the sun directly behind them, throwing their faces into deep shadow, but he knew Natasha’s form as well as he knew his own and the woman in the picture wasn’t her. The throw that he had kicked off the end of the bed soon after arriving and never bothered to pick up, wasn’t her style either. It was a patchwork of old fabrics in what had once been eye searing colours, that had softened with time and use. 

He pulled clothes on over his damp skin, having to wrestle slightly to unstick the soft cotton of his tee shirt, before leaving the room and creeping down the short hallway. There were three other doors on this floor. Two were closed tight and he left those alone, he didn’t know if they squeaked or how whoever owned the place would care if he snooped. The last door was the furthest from his and it led into a bedroom slightly smaller than the one he had been staying in. 

The open duffle with neatly folded clothes siting at the end of the bed quickly identified this as the bedroom Natasha had been crashing in. But nothing else about it made sense. Unlike the rest of the house, the walls were painted a soft blush pink. The bed was a teenager’s bed not an adult’s, white wood with cubbies underneath that had neatly stacked books and trinkets. A desk with an old pile of school books sat beside the open balcony doors. The paintings and posters on the walls were of European cities and fantastical landscapes. 

Clint backed out of the bedroom without touching anything or peeking through either of the closed doors. On his way back down the hall and down the stairs he looked at the photos hanging on the wall. A few of them were of the couple from his bedroom, never with their faces showing. There were a few of the man alone, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses and long hair pulled back off a handsome face that Clint felt he should recognise. There were more of the man with a different woman, this one blonde and as tall as the man in the photos. The last person to show up was a teenage girl, Clint figured she owned the room Tash was staying in. She only appeared in three of the photos and each time her hair colour was different, but the expression on her face was the same, she did not appreciate having her photo taken and was doing everything she could to hide from the camera, from a menu covering her lower face to a graduation cap pulled low over platinum hair. The girl felt familiar in a similar but closer way then the man did. As if he had seen him in passing but  _ knew _ her.

He stood staring at the half a face that was tickling his memory for a long time. It was Natasha clattering a pan into the ceramic sink that pulled him from his reverie, the identity would come to him eventually. At the moment he didn’t really have anything left to care.

His interest in the world around him spent, Clint tripped down the last few steps into the main room and slumped into a chair at the table. Mechanically he ate what was put in front of him and then retreated to his bed. For the rest of the day Natasha left him alone, bringing and taking food sporadically. 

The next day was the same. She roused him out of bed and into a run before breakfast which he ate with her down stairs before falling back into the nothing that had replaced everything. Each day he stayed aware for a little bit longer, he engaged a little bit more. For Natasha the snail’s pace was exhausting and frustrating. There were days where he seemed to do better and then ones when it was a struggle to get him out of bed in the morning. But she could see progress. 

For weeks he was doing better. He wasn’t retreating into himself until after the midday meal and he was back to pre-Loki levels of endurance. She had even started to consider getting someone to drop one of his spare bows to them, she knew he would need it soon.

The shaky but steady progress can to a grinding halt two months after they arrived. He had been getting worse for a few days but she let it go, it had been two step forward, one step back since the beginning. On the third day that they had gone back to her having to drag him out of bed each morning she had had enough. In retaliation she extended their morning run by a couple of miles. At the outer reaches of the route, she pulled them to a stop.

“What’s going on?” She glared at him, daring him to obfuscate or evade to question.

He glared back, panting slightly. He was almost back to his pre-New York condition but she had always been fitter than him, one of the side effects of the serum, not that he knew that. 

A single eyebrow raised over her glare prompted him to talk.

Shoulders hunching in, his body seemed to shrink slightly. “Our anniversary was last week, we have never spent it apart.”

Instantly, the glare fell from Natasha’s face. She had known that they had been married, but never questioned  _ when _ the ceremony had occurred. Both of them had been extremely private about those sorts of things, but Clint was sentimental and superstitious, dates mattered to him.

“I’m sorry Malenkaya ptitsa. Come, I will make blintzes.” She set off again.

They fell back into their established rhythm, even if Clint stuck a little closer than normal. Their open and easy movements shattered the minute they caught sight of the little house they had been staying in. There way a car in the driveway that neither of them recognised.

**Author's Note:**

> Translation:  
> “We have to keep moving, little bird.”  
> “Natasha, I have this. I will find her. Look after your little bird."


End file.
